The Real West
by James A. Ritchie
© 1993 by James A. Ritchie
Best-known as an author of western novels, including the recently published The Payback, James A. Ritchie makes a venture into the crime field here with a story that first came to him as the plot for a modern western novel. In this short version, the tale is a most entertaining crime story...
I’ve been a professional writer for ten years, but I still haven’t learned to enjoy book tours. Perhaps I’d feel differently were my name Stephen King, and if the talk shows my agent booked me on included The Tonight Show, or Good Morning, America. I am not, however, Stephen King, and the shows I am graced to appear on usually air at three in the morning and have an audience of several dozen. I guess that’s what comes from writing westerns instead of horror novels.
Still, I do enjoy the book signings. Not that I like writing my name over and over. It’s the fans who buy the books that I like. I think I’ve made more lasting friends from lines at the bookstores than anywhere else.
On this tour, though, a few of the fans were a bit on the strange side.
One fan who was... different... was a sweet little old lady who asked if I really knew Wild Bill Hickok or Billy the Kid. “No, ma’am,” I said. “I’m afraid they were a little before my time.”
“That’s silly,” she answered. “They visit me almost every night. You should come over and meet them sometime.”
Her face and the tone of her voice left no doubt that she was serious. Not knowing exactly how to reply, I signed the novel she handed me and mumbled that I might do that if I ever had a free night. She went away smiling, so I guess my answer was the right one.
Two or three times in the next few hours an oddball on the order of the little old lady came into the store and bought one of my books. The truth is, it didn’t bother me. To the contrary, I found these people somewhat entertaining. And anything capable of entertaining me while on tour is something I welcome.
But not long before closing another fan came in, and at first I took him for just another oddball of the same sort. That impression didn’t last long.
He was a man of medium height, built for speed rather than power, and his young, pimply face was adorned by a long, handlebar moustache. He was also dressed like a cowboy.
No, that isn’t quite right. I was dressed like a cowboy. He was dressed like a Hollywood gunfighter.
The difference is obvious to anyone who knows the real Old West from the Hollywood fantasy. I wore plain brown cowboy boots, scuffed around the toe and a bit down at heel from walking. My pants were faded Levi’s, my shirt flannel, and my hat a low-crowned Stetson.
This guy (from top to bottom) wore a Stetson big enough to take a bath in, a “western” shirt with fancy embroidery and leather cuffs, and brand new Levi’s tucked into a pair of boots that must have cost five hundred dollars, not counting the fancy silver toe guards.
But his attire aside, he bought a copy of my latest novel, The Payback, and handed it across the table. “Just write ‘to Billy,’ ” he said.
“Not Billy the Kid, by any chance?” I asked. I was smiling when I asked, but he took me seriously.
“Bill Bonney,” he said. “I don’t much like being called ‘Kid.’ Guess I can’t blame folks, though.”
“Surely that isn’t your real name?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Why not? Bonney is a common enough name, and so is William. It had to happen.”
I still didn’t know whether or not he was telling the truth about his name, but something about him intrigued me. Something in his eyes, in his manner, made me think that if his name wasn’t William Bonney, he still believed it was. He seemed somehow out of place, and I wanted to know more about him.
But there was something a little frightening about him, as well. A coldness, an aloofness, that surrounded him like a wall.
“I’ve read all your books,” he said. “I can’t say I like many of them.”
Not something a fan usually tells you after you sign the novel he just bought. “Really? I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything in particular you don’t like?”
“You write good,” he said. “But you don’t put many gunfights in the books. Not the real kind. Not one fast draw against another.”
“That’s mostly a myth,” I said. “Professional gunfighters almost never fought each other. In fact, I can’t think of a single case where it happened.”
“What about Jim Courtright and Luke Short?”
“Some people count that,” I said. “But I’m not sure they should. Jim Courtright was a gunfighter, but Luke Short was a gambler. Short never tried a fast draw in his life before that fight.”
“But he won,” Bonney said. “Luke Short beat him.”
“By dumb luck. Short just snapped off a wild shot that should have missed. Instead the bullet clipped off the tip of Courtright’s thumb as he was cocking his pistol. Before he could switch the pistol to his good hand, Short took careful aim and killed him.
“The simple truth is, the fast-draw gunfight just didn’t happen often, and never between gunfighters. Most gunfights were just, shoot the other man any way possible, including in the back.” Bonney’s face was flushed. “That’s not true. What about the code of the West? How do you explain that?”
“There’s nothing to explain. The ‘code of the West’ didn’t come from the West at all. Ned Buntline put that into one of his dime novels and it stuck. It was an even bigger myth than the gunfight at high noon.”
“You don’t know anything,” he said. “I’ll bet you’ve never even belted on a Colt, let alone fired one. Some Western writer you are.”
“I have fired a Colt,” I said. “And I can usually hit what I aim at. But I’m a writer. I research the Old West, and I write stories about it. That’s all.
“Look, if I offended you, I’m sorry. I do appreciate the fact that you read my novels, even if you disagree with them.”
“You’re still wrong,” he said. “You’re wrong about everything. I know what I’m talking about. You should see me draw a six-gun. I’m as good as any of them were.
“Maybe watching me use a six-gun would convince you?”
“I’m sure you’re very good,” I said. “Certainly better than I am. But I’ll have to pass on the demonstration. I still have five cities to hit in the next five days.”
His face was red from forehead to neck. He started to say something, stopped himself. For a minute he stared at me, then simply turned and headed for the door. But he looked back before leaving. “You’ll see me again,” he said. “You can count on it.”
Something in the tone of his voice shook me. There are nuts and oddballs everywhere, but most are harmless. I wasn’t sure that was true of this guy. I had a hunch he was so far around the bend that he was completely out of sight, if you know what I mean.
For the rest of the evening and most of the night I was on edge, constantly feeling as if someone was watching my every move. I spent the evening in my hotel room, and even went so far as to call my agent just to talk about “William Bonney,” if that was his real name.
My agent’s name is Sam Catton, and he’s a no-nonsense, hard-nosed son-of-a-mule, but he’s also the best friend I have. He was concerned, but thought it was nothing to worry about. “By noon tomorrow you’ll be in Denver,” he said. “Odds are you’ll never see this joker again.”